


years in squares

by orphan_account



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Friendship, Get Together, M/M, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-05
Updated: 2011-03-05
Packaged: 2017-10-20 22:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark and Marylin keep in touch after the depositions, maybe she even becomes Mark's personal lawyer, and they're friends after a fashion.<br/>As the years go by, she gets to witness the rebuilding of a friendship (and something more).</p>
            </blockquote>





	years in squares

**1\. year zero**

 

Marylin says goodbye to Mark Zuckerberg the night everyone signs the settlement agreement. It's the last time they'll see each other, she thinks. He will go on to become even more successful, richer. Lonelier. But it's not her concern anymore, even though she feels like, if she could just push a little bit more, he might topple.

Two days later, she gets a Friend Request on her Facebook profile, and a message from Mark Zuckerberg that reads, _'Trying to be less of an asshole_ '. He doesn't add 'Help', but it's implied.

Her office is downtown, six blocks from the Facebook building. The case will be closed soon. No one's ever been fired over being friends with a client. She writes back, _'Buy me a sandwich, and we're already making progress_.'

It's like he didn't expect her to take him up on the offer, because it takes him two more days to reply with a time and a place. In those two days, she reconsiders her opinion on him twelve times, because there are pictures of Emily all over her Facebook, especially of their wedding, and she still isn't sure if that offer for dinner wasn't just a come-on for a fuck. She tries not to assume the worst of people. If there's anything her job has taught her, it's that people act like assholes, but inside, everyone's afraid of rejection. She remembers Zuckerberg's face during the long hours of legal talk, whenever he thought no one was looking at him.

He's in his usual attire when he meets her, but more disheveled, his curly hair a mess. He looks sleepless, overtired. He looks in desperate need of nutrition. "I should buy you a sandwich," she smiles wryly.

Mark just waves his hand and says, "I probably own this place." There's no hint of humor in his voice, and yet she can feel a trace of laughter.

They go in, sit down. It's easy. He doesn't talk much, but that's all right. She talks more, but still not enough to cover all silence. They're not awkward. She knows his darkest secrets. It would be silly to be awkward now. In any case, he doesn't feel like the sort of person to feel awkward about silence, of all things.

When she gets a second coffee, ten minutes before her lunch break is over, he finally looks at her, giving her his full attention. It's a strange feeling in her lower belly, like a spark of attraction; except she knows attraction, it comes in the form of curvy girls, so it can't be that.

He says, "I want you to be my lawyer." And just like that, the spark vanishes. Marilyn knows the feeling that overshadows it, crisp and sharp, like a chunk of ice in the back of her throat. Professionalism. She says, "I do, too," and it's the second time in her life she's said that and meant it this much.

 

\- - - - -

 

 **2\. year one**

 

Marylin says good night to Mark Zuckerberg even though she knows this will not be a good night for him. He's still coding, fingers flying over the keyboard; he doesn't hear her. She was supposed to prep him on his next meeting with legal this weekend, but he's been non-responsive all day. He usually at least gives her an acknowledging nod when he spots her out of the corner of his eye, but there have been a lot of worrying signs lately, his deteriorating attention span one of them.

She watches him for a few more seconds before she moves out. The offices are deserted. It's past ten, and most people have lives beside Facebook; as far as she's aware, the latest shifts end at eight. There's a light in Dustin's office, so she drops in on him for a quick chat. "You still here? What does your lovely wife say to that?" she teases when he looks up at her knock.

"Hey Marylin," he grins. "What does yours say?"

Marylin rolls her eyes. "Em's probably asleep already. No sexy-times for me when I get home."

Dustin's grin widens. "Mine's out of the country. Maybe we should make it a night out, just the two of us, the two hardest-working employees of Facebook on a bender."

"How about we take Mark with us?"

Dustin's grin vanishes. "He hasn't gone home in days. I should kick him out of that chair, it's probably glued to his ass at this point."

"He's not usually that bad, is he?"

"No." Dustin sighs, kicks the side of his desk, and then he waves her inside, gets up and closes the door (as if anyone's out there, listening to them). But you never know, and possibly he sweeps his office for bugs every few days. Dustin's paranoid in weird ways. "Let me put it like this," he says. "You know how sometimes after a painful divorce, the kid is used as an emotional security blanket by the parent that got to keep it, whenever the other half does something hurtful?"

Marylin blinks. "And in this analogy -"

"Facebook is the baby."

"Ah." Marylin snorts. "It really was a divorce settlement, wasn't it. So Mark's - putting all his emotion into Facebook because of something?"

Dustin shrugs. "Who knows. He keeps tabs on Eduardo somehow, he's the billionaire. Maybe Eduardo's going out with someone new. Or maybe he's made a bad investment. Maybe he's bought something from someone he knows Mark hates and did it on purpose to piss him off. Who knows with those two."

Marylin goes home with a headache that night. Emily's not asleep yet. It helps.

The next morning, she finds Mark with his face on his keyboard, writing a long line of random consonants and vowels. She drives him home, makes him get into bed, gets him a hot water bottle and then sits down in front of his thousand-dollar entertainment system and beats his Halo record. Twice.

 

\- - - - -

 

 **3\. year two**

 

Marylin says good morning to Mark Zuckerberg with a cup of coffee brought to his hotel room, because she knows if she doesn't get his ass out of bed, he won't get up for hours. They have a charity event to attend in the evening, and she's his designated date because they've given up on finding him girls for events as this. They tend to slap Mark in the face before the evening is out, unless they punch him in the face, and then it's just a mess for her to clean up.

After the last disaster, she told him quietly but assertively that she would be accompanying him from now on. It means less paperwork for her, plus she gets to wear fabulous dresses she otherwise has no reason to buy. Strangely, he seems to prefer this arrangement, too.

"Morning," he mutters at her and lets her in. The room is big - bigger, she knows, than he prefers. He's already turned on the laptop and types a few passwords, booting it up, while he sips the coffee and makes a face.

"You have an hour until we're supposed to meet the Chairman of the American Enterprise Institute, and then we'll be having lunch with the Board of Children International - are you sure you want to be wearing that? A tie -" Mark gives her a look. She's hardly ever seen him wear a tie to anything. This day is not going to be the day either, apparently. She gives in. "You could at least have the decency to change in the bathroom. With a shower," she hints.

"I wanted to finish a program before we go, so there's no time," Mark says, and pulls his pants up. "Anyway, if you were really upset about seeing my penis, you would have turned around."

"It's not about - Mark." Marylin gives him a stern look. "Shower. Now." Because sometimes, in the mornings, one has to talk to him like he's a child. Once he's done with the shower, he'll be back to sharp-tongued and alert and that's definitely how she prefers him. If she wanted a toddler to command around, she would make one.

There are approximately five hundred hotels in Washington D.C. which is how Marylin knows what is up the moment she spots Eduardo downstairs when they're headed out. He looks gorgeous, fresh-faced and tanned, still slim but somehow more defined in his slick Prada suit. Marylin pulls Mark to a stop just outside the entrance door. "I picked the fucking hotel," she barks. "There is no way this is a coincidence. Explain."

Mark shrugs. He looks the tiniest bit sullen, which means he's feeling guilty. He's also staring at her shoes, which means he's embarrassed that he's been caught. "I might have an in with his secretary," he says.

"Personal assistant," she corrects, and then realizes what he's just said. "Mark," she groans. "Mark, that is beyond unacceptable. You can't stalk him like that, it's - it's not healthy. And it's unfair to him."

Mark's eyes grow cool, and the set of his shoulders grows stubborn. "It's none of your business."

The thing about Mark is, for him, the lines are never blurry. They never cross. It's like inside his head, he keeps things so separate that he can love and respect his best friend and still screw the naively incompetent CFO out of his share of their business. Marylin, though. Marylin knows she is a great friend; but she is also a great lawyer. And right now, since he doesn't want the friend, he'll be getting said lawyer. Marylin lets the friendly gesture she was about to give go and cracks her knuckles.

"He works for what could - with some goodwill - be considered a rivaling company, Mr. Zuckerberg. So even aside from the privacy laws that could be your undoing if said PA were to show you up in front of a judge, you could also get in potential trouble for corporate espionage. All it takes is the right tape of the right conversation"

"That's not -"

"Mark, shut up. I know you've been keeping tabs on him, but I assumed those were innocent inquiries that were publicly available, or at the worst, asking friends of friends about him. If you're actually paying someone off to spy on him -"

"I'm not," Mark bites out.

"I don't care. If you want to do what's best for Facebook, you cut it out, and you cut it out now." When Mark rolls his eyes at the ground, Marylin tips his chin up and makes him look at her. "If Eduardo finds out about this, he'll skin you alive. This is not okay."

Mark nods grudgingly.

Marylin sighs. "And if you're really this desperate to get him back, how about you try talking to him? I hear that helps."

 

-

 

Eduardo sometimes frequents the same events as Mark does, it happens; the scene is not that big. As far as Marylin knows, they've always kept as far away from each other as they could. They do the same avoidance dance this evening. Except later that night, when they're returning to their rooms, Mark hesitates when they're crossing the hotel reception floor and then says to her, "You go ahead," without explaining why he's skipping out on their traditional How-I-Met-Your-Mother post-charity marathon.

She wonders about it until she's at the elevator, mind preoccupied with numbers and legalities - and then she realizes what he's waiting for and turns right around on her heel, hurrying back. She's not sure she wants to let this one happen, because even though Eduardo maybe doesn't, she knows how much Mark cares. The dozens of unsent emails in his drafts folder speak their own language.

She's too late, though. "Wardo," she hears Mark say and stops just out of sight, because his tone of voice is... different. She can see Eduardo's face from where she's standing, but not Mark's - which is fine. His face gets more like a brick wall the more emotional finesse is required. She's not missing anything. Eduardo looks caught, like a deer in headlights, and oh, all of Dustin's Bambi references just come rushing at her, forcing her to stifle a giggle.

"Oh, I didn't. Mark," Eduardo says, and seems to remind himself to stay impassive, because the surprise makes way to an accompanying, but not quite as persuasive, brick wall impression. Mark doesn't reply for a long while, so the conversation stills. Finally, Eduardo pulls his shoulders up and says, "Was there something you wanted?"

"Can we talk?" Mark asks, short and clipped, and Marylin waits for the inevitable cutting, _Isn't that what we're doing now?_ from Eduardo, her heart beating rapidly. She wonders if it's worse of them, if it feels like this could blow up in their faces any moment.

Then, instead of pushing, or pushing away, Eduardo lets out a long breath. "Yeah," he says. "Yes. We should talk."

The tension drops. Marylin sees Mark's whole body relax, his back no longer stiff as a board, his head tilted in complete shock.

"What," Eduardo says, and gives a short, stocky laugh. "I'm not allowed to be an adult about this?"

Marylin's heart stutters at the words, and she hides her laugh into her hand because that's a challenge if she's ever heard one, and oh, Emily will love this. Ever since Marylin told her of the tragically doomed love story that is her boss and his ex best friend, she's been making up ways for them to reunite, trying to get Marylin to fix things.

This is better though, Marylin thinks, and watches them head towards the hotel bar, oblivious to her witnessing. This is good.

 

\- - - - -

 

 **4\. year three**

 

Marylin says good afternoon to Mark Zuckerberg when she stops by his office even though he's crashed on the couch, lights out. It's not the first time she's found him like this, and it won't be the last time despite the fact that she doesn't drop by his office very often now.

His laptop is balancing precariously close to the edge of the couch, his hands loosely curled around the screen, so she takes it away and puts it on his desk. She doesn't need to wonder why no one's come inside to make fun of him. A sleepy Mark is a cranky Mark, and a cranky Mark has been known to throw his flip-flops at people. Well, at Dustin. Dustin's the only one who willingly enters Mark's office at this point. This is not because Mark's a horrible boss, but simply because if you do enter, you have to be prepared for one of two things: to be completely ignored, or to be harassed with code talk.

Marylin has no such fear. She's been friends with Mark for going on three years now. His code talk doesn't scare her, and when he's ignoring her, she is perfectly willing to stand behind him and tap the rhythm of Beethoven's Eighth Symphony onto his head and shoulders until he's done.

The screensaver vanishes to unveil a password-lock. Marylin glances at Mark who is sleeping peacefully, drooling into his sweater, and then tells herself that she gets one shot, and one shot only, and if it doesn't work, she'll close the thing, wake Mark up and take him home. Sleeping in a bed is much more comfortable and also, she just this morning sent all his WoW guild members running for cover with her fearsome ninja skills, and she has a feeling he hasn't yet seen the scattered remains of Sugarmountain Empire.

She stares at the password box for half a minute before she types Wardo and hits Enter. Her stomach lurches when the first level of security of his computer unlocks without a hiccup. Mark is so predictable. Marylin will be the first to admit that he acts like the biggest douchebag on the planet sometimes; but underneath it all, Mark can be surprisingly sweet-gestured and romantic. It's a shame that he only ever shows that side of himself when no one can see it (or when he's with Emily, which is a completely different source of hilarity).

There is a lot of programming script she can't decipher past the basics, so she pulls those windows aside. She's not kidding herself that this lock level of his computer holds anything of importance, but it's not like she's here to steal his ideas. Somewhere underneath all the crap, his Facebook's running. It's a morbid sort of curiosity that makes her do this, and she isn't even sure why she's so curious. Mark's been acting strange lately - stranger than usual - and she has a feeling she knows who it has to do with, so maybe it's in her nature. She has to investigate an instinct.

In the past year, the reconciliation with Eduardo has been slow and steady; but that's all she knows. Mark doesn't talk about it, even with her, even now that most friends from his college days are gone. And yes, Dustin pops in regularly, and Chris calls or drops by every odd month, but it's not the same; she doubts he's talked about it with them either.

She often thinks that he must be very lonely, living in that empty house of his, coming to the offices every single day and twice on weekends, coding all hours of the day, whenever he's not traveling. Marylin's seen him with other people, even programmers, but that doesn't mean he has any friends amongst them; and if he does, it's still very hard for him to make friends outside of work, so friends he doesn't pay are very rare. He never dates either, though she has seen him leave with a girl sometimes when they do go out. She's glad to know that Mark's sister has relocated to California to keep him company; and that even now that she herself only works for Facebook in a consultative capacity, they have a standing weekday date where they meet up for gaming and beers.

On Mark's private Facebook alias, there are a few messages back and forth between Mark and people she doesn't know, a few messages from what seems to be Mark's family. He doesn't use the message feature much. He doesn't really use Facebook in general, which is a little disconcerting. Fortunatly, Marylin also knows the password to his email account - a randomly generated, secure password this time, Mark's not so stupid as to put 'Wardo' as a password for that.

His email account is a mess. He filters the incomings by something - there are folders - but the sorting makes very little sense, and half of the emails are unopened. The ones from Eduardo are in a folder called 'Wardo', which simplifies things.

Eduardo calls sometimes, she knows. Mark's assistant Leah came to her a few weeks after the weekend in D.C. and asked about the legal consequences of Mark and Eduardo talking on the phone, whether she knew what the contracts said, what the settlements asked for. There had been a contact restriction clause in the original settlement. Marylin has no idea whose lawyer originated it. And it doesn't matter anyway; by the time the signatures were inked, the clause had vanished. Since she's fairly sure Mark didn't read the settlement very carefully (if at all), Eduardo must have insisted on its removal. At the time, she'd wondered what that meant. Now she's pretty sure she knows.

Their emails, in stark contrast, are short and terse. A quick 'How are you' here and there, and Facebook updates from Mark, carefully worded; Marylin wonders if he's letting Leah proof-read to avoid random assholery. There's nothing substantial in any of this, not in the whole last year, not in the thirty or so emails they've exchanged, about once a forthnight.

There's a cough from Mark that makes her jump. Then Mark's sitting up, looking at her, running his fingers through his messy hair. Marylin doesn't even pretend that she hasn't been snooping.

"What're you doing?" he mutters, clearing his throat.

"Checking up on you," she says. "You stood us up last night. Emily was very upset."

Mark opens his mouth, shoulders hunching. "Is she really?"

Marylin tilts her head. "No. Mark, Emily wouldn't be upset at you if you threw me off a bridge." Mark rolls his eyes; that is great because it means he's not taking her words hyper-literally, which he only does when he hasn't slept for over 40 hours. "Honestly," she continues. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Mark says.

"All right. Is Eduardo okay?" Mark narrows his eyes at her. It's a minimal movement, and yet it tells her so much. For one, it means she's pushing his buttons. It's been years since he last narrowed his eyes at the mere mention of Eduardo's name. "I checked on your Facebook and in your emails, but it didn't give me any additional information."

"You broke into my computer," Mark says, and then, "Oh." Possibly because he's just remembered what his password is. He frowns. "Can I sue you for this?"

"You could," Marylin tells him. "But I'm probably the better lawyer of the two of us. Plus, I know about that time you logged into Barack Obama's email account and sent a love letter to Michelle. Which was very sweet. In a slightly creepy way."

"I." Mark blinks. "All right. You win. But Michelle Obama is deserving of love letters. And it was her birthday."

"How is the FBI not locking you away for all eternity," Marylin wonders aloud. When Mark opens his mouth to get in a quip about not leaving any traces, she quickly adds, "Anyway. You wanted to tell me what's going on with Eduardo and yourself."

"Nothing," Mark says.

"I don't believe -"

"Nothing. Because he's not in the country. Or in this hemisphere. Or anywhere within a radius small enough that there could be anything." He sounds frustrated, like he only does when he's talking to someone about a piece of code and the person doesn't understand.

Most people think that, because Mark's not obvious about his feelings, he doesn't have any. Marylin has never thought that, but she also didn't figure it out until Emily pointed out that Mark probably thinks a lot like the codes he writes; which means there must be layers upon layers of squirming, writhing somtehing underneath the motionless surface. And even that first layer from the top might not necessarily do anything but hide the layers underneath.

Frustration is easy and explicit and most importantly, it's easily expressed. It's harder to face hurt, because it's so complex and it has no easy target; it spins out of control and there's no way to vent unless one transforms it into something else.

"Have you asked Eduardo to visit?" she tries, because it seems the logical option for this situation.

Mark rises from the couch and rescues his laptop from her side. He doesn't answer, which means he hasn't, and won't. The possibility of rejection is too frightening.

"Why now?" she asks.

"Why now what?"

"Why is this becoming a big deal now? It's been forever since you talked at that charity. You've been calling and emailing."

Mark makes a face and hides behind his laptop, typing slowly.

"Mark."

"I'm changing my password."

"Mark."

"There are pictures," Mark says with the same amount of expressibility as that computer in his lap. "Not online or anything. And not illegal ones. Some investors I know were at a party, so I got them, too."

"And?"

"Wardo's in some of them with a guy. Some Asian upstart. They're planning a joint business deal. Some kind of company, there's no details leaking yet, and believe me, I've tried getting the details."

"I can imagine," Marylin says disapprovingly. "The lawyer in me shudders at the thought." She remembers the date on the last email and matches it up to the time Mark started to act strange-er. "You haven't talked to Eduardo for a month?"

Mark shrugs. "I don't need him. He can do whatever he wants."

"I know that," Marylin reminds him. And so does Eduardo, very clearly.

It's the truth, and it's also, she's fairly sure, why Eduardo got hurt so badly and why they're having such a hard time and why all the things went down the way they did. Eduardo wants to be needed, and Mark doesn't need anything but a computer and his brain.

What neither of the two dumbasses gets is that wanting someone can be just as good, and probably even healthier. Marylin leans back in her chair and closes her eyes. "What you do need is to snap out of it," she tells him. "It's like you said, he can do whatever he wants. And so can you. If you don't need him, what's the harm in telling him you want him to visit? Worst thing, he says no. In which case you won't be worse off than you're right now." She opens her eyes and catches his gaze, holding it. "You're not doing great right now, Mark."

He breaks eye-contact and shrugs. It feels like a 'Fuck you', but it also feels like a 'Fuck you, I hate it when you're right'.

She's always right, what can you do.

 

\- - - - -

 

 **5\. year four**

 

Marylin is prepared for 'a small get-together with friends' for her five-year wedding anniversary, so it comes as somewhat of a surprise when she realizes that Emily has arranged for over a hundred people to come to their house, step outside to the beach side and participate in a fun evening of champagne, barbecue fires and strawberries.

It's no longer unbearably hot, a cooling breeze in the air, and the lamps around the garden light the place up, turning it into a display of colorful faces. It's very beautiful, tastefully decorated, music tinkling in the background. She takes a sip of red wine she grabbed from one of the tables when she came out here and wonders if she can in any way get away with pretending that Mark had nothing to do with this. She has a strange feeling, however, that this is what happens when your wife has your ex-boss wrapped around her little finger.

Arms curl around her waist and Emily puts her chin on Marylin's shoulder. Marylin can feel her grin. "You're thinking too hard."

"Did you see our parents run off towards the sea? I don't even want to know what they're plotting."

Emily snorts. "Let them plot. More importantly, guess who's here?"

"Old Spice Guy?" Marylin asks, hopeful. "It's never too late to meet the love of my life."

"Cheek," Emily says and kisses her chin. " _Eduardo_."

Marylin stiffens, then slips out of Emily's hold to turn around and look at her. "Why?" she asks, baffled. They've only met a few times over the past year, since Eduardo does visit California sometimes, and other times Marylin accompanies Mark to charity events and banquets when he can't find a suitable companion. But Eduardo always makes it very clear that visiting Mark is the surplus during his visits in the US, the _aftermath_ of having met with all the important investors, bankers, random sports people and potential business partners.

Emily tilts her head. "I invited him," she says. "I thought it would be a good idea. We talked that one time, remember? At the Facebook shareholder meeting."

Marylin doesn't remember. Not being a shareholder, she wasn't there. It doesn't matter in any case; there are more pressing matters. "Does Mark know about this?" she asks. Emily's smile turns impish, and Marylin's stomach twists. "Oh, crap."

 

-

 

She finds them in the first place she looks. She doesn't know why their kitchen holds such appeal for Mark; maybe it's the decor or the colors, something about it reminding him of a safe space. It's where he usually goes first when he visits. It's where he's now, away from all the other guests to whom the kitchen is off limits, strewn with the dinner dishes all neatly sorted and piled.

Eduardo's leaning against the fridge, relaxed and comfortable, legs crossed, dark suit neatly pressed. His eyes are set on Mark's face. Mark's fingers are curled around the countertop, his usual hoodie-and-khakis outift a stark contrast. "- this isn't really the time," he's saying.

"It never is," Mark replies softly. "I thought." He stops, searching for words.

"Hey Marylin," Eduardo interrupts him before Mark can continue, spotting her. She didn't exactly hide, directly in his line of sight at the door. He pushes off the fridge and meanders around Mark to get to her. The short but friendly hug is enough to set her teeth on edge. "Sorry about invading your kitchen like this. That was inappropriate of us. I hope we didn't mess anything up."

"No, it's fine," she tells him, because that's what he's worried about?

He smiles. "Congratulations on. All of this."

"Thanks."

The awkward pause that follows makes him set his shoulders. "All right. I'll go find Emily. I didn't want to stay long, but I was in the area, I thought I might as well say hi."

In the area. Of this particular residential spot, almost an hour out of the city. Marylin swallows the too-snide remark that springs to mind and instead tells him, "It's good of you to come," letting him pass. She has no idea why the stiffness and now the sudden discomfort, though he's never been particularly warm with her; she watches him take the little path to the beach garden and wonders why.

"He remembers you from the lawsuit," Mark says, coming up to her side.

"What? Oh. Yes. I guess he must." It hadn't even occurred to her that Eduardo might be projecting because of that, but it makes sense. She'd been the enemy during that time. It's hard to put things like that out of one's firmly established drawers once it's all said and done. "Has it been going better with you two?"

Mark gives her a look that speaks volumes.

"I thought you were getting to be friends," Marylin admits. "After that meeting in D.C. and then last year when you went to visit him. You were gone for weeks. Emily was already planning your wedding."

"Emily's got a head of stupid ideas about how other people are supposed to lead their lives," Mark says sharply.

"Hey."

Mark shrugs. "It's true. Just because you've got your happy little twosome doesn't mean everyone should. Or wants to."

"You're a big, fat liar," Marylin says. "And no one's saying we want everyone to pair up. But you're in love with him."

"I'm not."

"All right. In that case, you won't mind if I let Emily set him up with one of her delightful friends for tonight so he doesn't have to spend the evening standing around like a lonely totem pole. Or like you, for that matter."

Mark scowls. "I brought my laptop."

"Do not dare to make a step towards that thing tonight. If I see you near any code - yes, that includes any form of hand-written too, napkins, CD cases, windows, all out - I will take you and that little company of yours down." Marylin puts her hands on her hips. "Now, are you ready to accompany me back to my bride? Oh, and here. Have something to drink. You'll need it."

Mark takes the offered glass of wine and downs what's left in one. Marylin laughs breathlessly and wonders how hard it will be to get Mark drunk enough to loosen up.

 

-

 

Mark, it turns out, is a complete lightweight. He drinks two more glasses of champagne, and one beer, and he's gone, dancing like a crazy person around one of the fires before he takes off towards the sea with a few of the other guys, making bets about skinny-dipping and moon-walking and something about gummibears that Marylin does not want to know. She just watches him go, laughs and turns to Emily, who snaps her up and twirls her around, kissing the air out of her.

"Wonder when the last time he had any fun was," she mumbles into the kiss, because that's what they do these days, apparently. Speculating on Mark's sex life.

Marylin snickers. "You know how it is. Coding is the most fun a boy can have -"

"- without taking his clothes off," Emily finishes and keels over, spluttering.

But the other guys return, one after the other, and when Mark's not among them, Marylin does get a little worried. The party's winding down, most people are heading home or going inside to find a place to crash in any of the living or guest rooms Emily's prepared. Emily's sitting with a few of her collegues, chatting, so Marylin decides to head down to the beach to see if everything's okay and no one drowned. Even tipsy, she can perfectly imagine the headlines, 'Facebook Prodigy found dead after out-of-control party'. It would be just like Mark to drown in the Pacific.

There's hardly any light anymore illuminating the short walk down the beach right to the sea-side so she goes slowly, carefully paying attention not to step on any big stones that could make her fall and break her neck. The moon's barely there, a tiny crescent, but the ocean sounds wonderful, so she plops down, just for a minute, to listen to the waves crashing, a few lonely birds hooting in the night. She almost forgets what she came down here for (except the sea, obviously), but then she sees silhouettes and hears voices, and remembers. Right. Mark.

"Mark?" she calls, just to make sure. It could be a crazyman with an axe, waiting to murder her. Stranger things have happened.

The talking stops. There's two of them, and oh dear. She could take one crazyman with an axe (probably), but two might be a problem.

"Marylin?" one of the shapes says, and oh, good. It's Mark.

"I came to see if you'd drowned," she tells him seriously. "Oh, hello Eduardo. Honestly, you are even prettier in the dark. Is that even possible?"

Mark is smirking. "You're drunk," he says.

"Tipsy," Marylin corrects him. "There's a difference. Don't make me smack you, I came here to save you. From the axe man." Then she laughs, because that is sort of funny. Mark so wouldn't know how to deal if he was attacked by the axe man. He'd probably throw a pearl script at him. Or his laptop. "Poor laptop."

"I think we should take her back to the house," Eduardo says slowly.

"Good plan," Mark says. "Marylin? We're going back to the house now." He sounds sober, which is unfair.

He's also wet from head to toe, she realizes when she gets a good look at him once they're closer to the patio. "Did you jump into the ocean?" she asks him. Eduardo, on the other hand, is suspiciously dry. Except the front of his suit, where a bit of water has seeped into the material, creating ugly stains. She shakes her head and looks back at Mark. "You two should have underwater-sex at least once. You're invited to do it in my part of the ocean. It takes a while to figure out the mechanics, but once it's good, it's goooooood."

She could swear she sees Eduardo flush, and Mark looks distinctly uncomfortable, but hey. You only live once. She tells them that, too. Then she finds Emily, and Emily takes her hand, wrapping herself around her, nibbling her neck; Marylin immediately forgets everything about Mark and Eduardo, because she's secretly a vampire.

 

-

 

The next morning, Marylin wakes up with a hangover from hell. It's barely past eight, which means she got a grand total of four hours of sleep. But since she's already up and puking into her toilet, she guesses she might as well go about starting the day with a disgusting cure for that headache and a lot of painkillers.

The living room is, surprisingly enough, not littered with people. Two someones are sleeping on the couch, and another one in the (very comfortable) armchair. There is a distinctly human shape on the rug, covered by a blanket. But that's it. They all wake at the smell of coffee filtering out of the kitchen and stumble inside, grabbing the cups she's prepared, spreading out around the kitchen table. There are three guest rooms; she checks in all of them, finding lumps of people here and there. A few get up, a few keep sleeping. She's pretty sure she's got a headcount of everyone to start a simple breakfast of toast and eggs, when she remembers the game room.

When Mark's visiting and he's not sitting in the kitchen, he's usually in the game room. The door's closed, which means someone's inside because she never closes that door; and there is a fold-out couch that turns into a double bed inside, on which Mark has slept a couple of times when he was staying over. She goes and slowly slides the door open to peek inside.

Mark is indeed there, the curly top of his head visible on the pillow. The surprising part is that he's not alone. Marylin cracks the door open wider and slips into the room. Mark sleeps like the dead once he does sleep, so she's not afraid he'll wake; next to him, though, head pillowed on Mark's shoulder is Eduardo, and he's awake.

"Hey," she murmurs, trying not to sound like she's been caught sneaking about. This is her house, after all. "First round of breakfast'll be ready in a few minutes," she settles on. "Are you getting up now or later?"

Eduardo rolls his eyes, but he doesn't move otherwise. It's quite an accomplishment. "There's no need to pretend like you don't have a thousand questions," he says.

"Just one, actually," Marylin says, raising her voice to his level. Mark doesn't stir.

Eduardo's eyebrows rise. "Which one?"

"Are you going to fuck him over?"

And for the first time since he's packed up and hidden the unbearable hurt and anger after that heart-breaking lawsuit, she sees him lose that irritatingly cool indifference he's been wearing over his emotions like a cloak. He looks like she's punched him in the gut.

"I - no," he says, eyes wide. "I won't. I would never." And behind those words, lurking, I never want to hurt him, which is more than she'd expected in answer to a question that's really none of her business.

"Good," Marylin says. "See that you don't. I'll leave you guys to it; let him get some sleep. He sleeps too little as it is. I'll see you in a few hours."

When she heads back through the door, pulling it closed behind her, she sees that he's lifted himself off Mark's shoulder and onto his elbow, and is gazing down at Mark's face. There's a look on his face she doesn't quite know what to do with.

Marylin closes the door and a few steps down the hallway, she leans against the wall, breathing in slowly. She's too tired for this, and too hung-over, and she doesn't want to think about all the horrible ways this could end with both of them in pieces. Again.

So instead, she spends the rest of the morning idly chatting with her friends over coffee and toast, now and then wondering who started it, if they kissed by the sea-side under the open sky, or in the game-room, after she'd already gone to bed. They're nice thoughts. The feeling in her chest at this reminds her of that time in the beginning, back when she'd only been starting to get to know Emily.

 

Later, when she hears them leave the room, she sees their reddened lips and flushed faces, and smiles because it reassures her that it wasn't just a night's drunken fumble. They must have worked something out. Emily elbows her, possibly to make her stop staring. She grins, handing them their coffees, and of course, Mark pulls a face like he's been sentenced to a year without his laptop.

Eduardo heads out first, but Marylin manages to catch Mark before he leaves.

"Is he going to stay, then?" she asks, getting straight to the point. There's never any reason to beat around the bush with Mark.

Mark bites his lip and puts his hands in his hoodie pockets, half-smiling, half-scowling. "We'll figure out what to do about that. Later. Thanks, by the way."

"Thanks what?"

Mark shrugs. "Just stuff." He waits a beat, then asks, "Should I apologize, do you think?" The words are short and hesitant. He hardly ever sounds so unsure, not even about legal matters.

"For the share dilution?"

"Yeah."

"No," Marylin says.

Mark lets out a breath.

"For breaking his heart, though, yeah. You could start with that." When he looks down at his sandals, she adds, "Most people don't have - multiple systems going on up here." She tips her head. "Sometimes, we mix things up, and what should be a clear line becomes criss-crossed and muddled. Aren't you sorry for hurting him?"

Mark is still not looking at her when he says, "I am."

"So apologize for that."

"What about him?"

"What?" Marylin frowns. Then she gets it. "Oh. I don't think he knows about your side of the story, Mark. He's not a telepath, and you... don't really project."

"Right." Mark nods, mouth pressed into a thin line. "That's what Emily said."

Marylin snorts, not upset, because that's Mark. Double-check everything. "I'll see you next week for a Starcraft rematch? You're getting dinner."

Mark blushes, reddish tinge barely visible, but still there. "I... might be not here. Next week."

It makes her laugh. Mark rolls his eyes and takes off, not looking back.

 

\- - - - -

 

 **6\. year five**

 

They settle on Hawaii. It's about halfway between Singapore and California, which is the main reason; beside the fact that it's one of Eduardo's childhood dreams, which Mark knows because he's seen pictures of a vacation Eduardo spent there with his parents when he was eleven, and Eduardo's face when he showed them to Mark.

It takes him a while to get around to apologizing. After a while, the text messages from Emily do get very annoying though, so one day, he writes an email - "Two lines, that's not even an email," Marylin tells him, disgusted - and Eduardo calls and says, "Me, too."

Apparently, Eduardo's a telepath, after all. Who knew.

The house is beautiful, but that's never been something Mark cares about. Eduardo keeps it that way. They don't spend too much time there, but it's their meet-up spot when they want to be together. It's about enough.

Some day, Mark hopes, Eduardo will move to California with him. Mark doesn't have many friends, and he doesn't really need any, but he feels at home there, with Marylin and Emily close, and Chris and Dustin dropping in from time to time, and all his Facebook associates and friends and co-workers. He's not sure if Eduardo has the same sort of network in Singapore - he doesn't dare to ask, in case he does. Maybe he will, one day. Maybe he'll write Eduardo an email about it.

 

It's getting dark outside when Mark closes his laptop, hearing the car pull up in front of the house. It's rain season, so Eduardo's drenched when he comes in the front door. This time, Mark knows exactly what to do about that.

He peels the clothes off of Eduardo, getting at his mouth, tasting and licking and biting; sometimes it's like this when they're in the mood. Sometimes, it's easy and slow and gentle, but sometimes, it's heated and desperate, like there's something they have to make up for. Maybe the years.

Eduardo's slim and muscular under his suit, naked chest wet from the shirt, and Mark pulls him down on top of himself, spreading them both out over the couch.

"You've missed me," Eduardo teases, and kisses him deeply, sparing him the reply in the same breath.

Mark never says yes, because he's never sure if saying it will make it no longer true. But he puts his hands on Eduardo's waist, holding him, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his briefs, and Eduardo understands what he means.

"Me too," he says. He breathes into Mark's neck, hot, the scent of night air, rain and sea salt all around them.

 

\- - - - -  
The End.


End file.
